


Doctor, Doctor

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, House M.D.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What, no comments about his sexy pecs?” House leaned against the cabinets, tapping his cane against his shoes. “Cameron, you’re slacking. Normally after a look like that, you’d have the guy’s balls in a verbal crush.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor, Doctor

"Well. You're a surprise." Limping over to the wall, House stops, staring. "You know, I've dealt with Mafia before. They didn't cut my phone line. Of course, that'd probably be because I could _yell!"_

The word echoed through the glass-walled room, even darker than House's normal dim preference. He waited a moment, fully expecting a lab-coated minion to appear. The minute stretched to several and House needed to seriously rethink his occasional bouts of yelling for random reasons. Soon.

The leather-bedecked, bleach-blond punk who was leaning back in House's chair just smirked at him. "Funny thing, me already thinking you'd do that. Got it taken care of." He held up a thing of glowing _something_ like it was all the answer he needed. It wasn't. The punk-kid sighed, adding, "No one's gonna hear us, not with this all glowy. No one's gonna see me in here, either. So sit down, all right?"

"You're in my chair." Sometimes, his curiosity was a dangerous thing. For all the punk-kid looked like a, well, punk kid, there was a sense of weariness and age about him that belied the pale smoothness of his cheek. Then there was the hand that clenched and unclenched on his knee, a tell-tale sign of anxiety.

And third, of course, was the barely restrained sense of menace: if House made a wrong move here, a gun would be the least of his worries. He'd seen enough trained fighters—not soldiers, _fighters_ —to recognize it here.

One black-wing eyebrow rose, followed by the punk who bowed mockingly. "I'd say I'm sorry to barge in like this, but, that'd be a lie. And you don't like that very much."

Homework, then. Fascinating. "And you want me to like you, don't you?"

A snort, the kid—was he a kid? He moved like one, but he didn't act like one—settled a hip on a table, careless of the papers his body mass moved. "Me? Could care less. You're a miserable sot of a human being, and I've already got me one of those."

It was the inflection that caught his attention, really. House didn't like people, but he _knew_ them. Knew how to read and predict them, acting accordingly. This guy, however... "Let me guess: is she... sick?"

"He. Yeah. Got us some nice and fancy doctors overseas, but we're here and they're there. He's got a rash, but it smells wrong. Brought you pictures."

It _smelled_ wrong? House picked up the manilla envelope the punk nodded to, scanning the photos. "Has your, oh, let's just call him your _paramour_ —I like that word, it has such a formal ring to it—been out of the country lately?"

"Asia and Africa. But he was clean after both those places. I made sure of that."

House didn't bother asking what methods the kid had used. He didn't need to. Long, gleaming fangs were grinning down at him, yellow eyes just daring him to make a scene. To comment on the almost scaled ridges around the eyes, the way the room seemed to _shiver_ with inhuman coldness.

Now that? That was _extremely_ fascinating. House leaned forward, asking, "If I treat him, that means I get lots of time to spend with you, right?"

"Never been afraid of leeches."

House's grin matched the punk's intensity for intensity.

* * * *

“Differential diagnosis, people! And someone close the blinds. Our guest has a little sun allergy.”

An understatement, given how incredibly pale the black-leather-clad figure cautiously edging into the room was. Cameron exchanged a look with Chase; it’d be one of them, of course. Mental rock-paper-scissors was played and Chase sighed as he got up to close the blinds.

Smug with triumph, Cameron glanced down at the table. The empty table. “We don’t have any files.”

“They’re being faxed over,” the strange man said. He’d spun a chair around, straddling it with careless grace that Chase found hard to look away from. He ended up looking cross-eyed as he sat back down. “Eventually, anyway, since this’s gotta be about the bush. Can’t let his boss know and if Red finds out the oceans’ll bloody boil by the time she’s done with both of us.”

Four blinks. Well, three, but House got over his surprise first and went back to scribbling symptoms on the whiteboard. “And would the ocean’s boiling be a _literal_ possibility?”

The stranger gave a toothy grin. “That work as incentive for you?”

“I’m a little confused why we have a guest,” Foreman interrupted. Working for House for so long created a sarcasm-sensitivity. “You hate talking to patients. You hate proxies, which is what I’m assuming he is, even more.”

House finished the final word— _headaches_ —with a little flourish. “Yes, but if I never changed, I’d be _boring_. Or possibly Chase. Besides. We have among us a real, live—well, can I call you live? Cameron, go take his pulse.”

“I—what?” Cameron glanced over at the stranger, who leered. “Why would I need to take _his_ pulse?”

House rolled his eyes, making waving motions until she obediently rose and fetched a stethoscope. The stranger leaned back, blatantly looking her over in a way that made Chase scowl and even Foreman look a little annoyed—there was nothing subtle about his expression, surpassing the normal ‘oo, pretty girl’ reaction most men wore around Cameron and went straight into _right now, you’re naked, on your knees, and I’m fucking your face. And you_ like _it._

Cameron’s flush lasted about ten seconds after she touched his wrist. “That’s weird,” she said slowly, abruptly all professional decorum while the stranger smirked in great amusement. Even House looked like this was more entertaining than Garcia's pronouncement that _he_ was going to have the baby, whether or not his sister-wife agreed to it. Ah, soap operas. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I’m going to have to—could you take off your shirt, please?”

“What, no comments about his sexy pecs?” House leaned against the cabinets, tapping his cane against his shoes. “Cameron, you’re slacking. Normally after a look like that, you’d have the guy’s balls in a verbal crush.”

“You trying to turn me on?” the stranger snickered, shrugging out of his jacket and the red unbuttoned-button down. The tight t-shirt was thin enough that Cameron didn’t bother asking him to remove it. “I like strong women. Think she could smash my face in a wall if she wanted? Best way to get a bloke in the mood, really.”

Chase exchanged a glance with Foreman. Cameron wasn’t slapping him, wasn’t muttering anything about juvenile, misogynistic behavior. Instead she was moving the stethoscope around over the stranger’s chest, looking increasingly incredulous. “Uh, Cameron?” Chase asked. “Do you need help?”

“Oh, why don’t you two strapping boys go and help her.” House busied himself with a cup of coffee. “And once you’re done finding no pulse, maybe you should all sit down so we can talk about our _actual_ patient. The one that’s still _living_ , as opposed to the living _dead_ who can’t be healed. Oh, huh. You can’t actually be healed, right?”

Chest thrust out as three hands of different colors moved over him and looking like he was going to start laughing or fully stripping any second, the stranger frowned. “D’you mean when I break bones and such, do I heal then? Yeah, revert back to what I was, eventually. Goes faster if I’m not stuck with pig or the like. If you’re asking if you can make me human, well, only one I know who actually _wanted_ that, let alone pursued it with blockheaded determination, and he gave it up a while back.” Shrugging hard enough that he dislodged the hands that were no longer taking his nonexistent pulse but just _leaning_ on him, the stranger gave a toothy, yellow-tinged grin that dropped the temperature about five degrees. “So, in answer, no.”

“Okay then.” Halfway back to the white-board, House paused. “You can all sit back _down_ now. That’s what the decisively stated ‘okay’ meant.”

“He has no heartbeat!” Chase's voice went very shrill. “Or pulse! And he didn’t inhale to talk!”

“Oi! I inhale.” The comment started out indignant but ended leering—implying _what_ he wanted to inhale.

Cameron took a big step back. A few seconds later, Chase followed.

“Children! Bram Stoker at our table is not the point, so can we please get back to our jobs and the differential diagnosis? Oh, say—now?”

Foreman frowned, leaning forward to poke at the stranger’s forehead. “This is from the shop on Aiken, right? It’s plastic. I don’t know how you hid your heartbeat, but I gotta say, the make up’s pretty cool.”

The stranger tolerated the poking for another second, then grabbed Foreman’s finger. “Mate. I'm worried about someone, so I'll give you a freebie. That’s the one and _only_ time you ever get to do that without me driving something sharp into your sternum. Get me?”

The stranger's smile was slow, almost achingly s as it grew in fullness. And terrifying. There was nothing at all human about that smile, full of elongated, sharpened teeth, below a brow that was bumpy, rigid, and more like a snake's scales than human skin.

“His eyes are slitted,” Cameron said quietly.

“And yellow. They were blue three seconds ago,” Chase continued.

The stranger snorted, gently kicking Foreman away from him and looking at House. “You’re right. That blonde one? Totally a ponce and pretty much begging for it.” He tapped his nose, looking meaningful.

“I—what are you—I am _not_ —whatever it was you just said I—”

“Bloody Christ.” Standing up, the stranger stalked up to the whiteboard and yanked the marker out of House’s hand. That House didn’t do anything but take a step back effectively cut the chatter. “His name,” the stranger said in a loud voice, “is Alexander Harris. Call him Xander. He’s a thirty three year old male, healthy although his cholesterol’s a bit on the high side. Leads a nice, active lifestyle even when I’m off on something and can’t keep him chained to the bed. We travel a lot. Been to Asia _and_ Africa in the last three months. ’Bout a week ago, he started complaining of headaches. Not unusual, since he’s got only one eye left, and he gets phantom pains a lot. This was more in his sinus, though, on the wrong side and getting him nice and relaxed didn’t work, the way it usually does if it’s eye pain. Ergo, not related.”

“Wait a minute, you forgot to tell me about a _missing eye_? That's just great. That changes everything, you moron," House accused. “Was it a birth-defect, or—”

“Or _not related_ ,” the stranger snapped, something cold and furious edging through his voice. House shut up fast enough that even the stranger looked a little surprised; House’s temperament was legendary. “Headaches turned into muscle aches that nothing seemed to get rid of, and I’ll get you a list of the ‘nothings’ we tried. He’s got a rash, it’s spreading, and it’s doing a bunch of other things that’re already listed on the board. So. Can we _help_ him now, please?”

There was a moment or two of silence. Not many people bearded House in his own den. Or not-people. Formerly people? Then Foreman said, “You said you’ve been to both Africa and Asia recently. There are a lot of diseases there, that—”

The stranger shook his head, looking frustrated. “What do you think House’s little game with you was about?” He flashed his fangs at them. “We go to some weird places, do weirder things. I’m damned careful with him, when I can be, and there was nothing unusual in his blood until he started getting the headaches, and it’s been at least three weeks since we arrived in this toxic hellhole.”

“Hey,” House protested mildly. “I like New Jersey.”

The stranger rolled his eyes. “Some people like _Mandy_ , doesn’t make ’em less freakish.”

House's response was lost as Cameron laughed bitterly, mouth a tight line when everyone looked at her. “Game? Wow, that's a surprise. House thought he could play a game with us!”

“Oh for Christ—no, you stupid twa—twit!" The stranger whirled to pace to the far wall. Restless energy filled the room, his frustration so thick in the air that it had its own taste: burnt popcorn or something else charred and blacked and still cracking with heat. "The _game_ was to show you that when I say nothing was off in his blood then and it _is_ now, it’s so you’ll believe me.”

“And vampires are incapable of lying?”

The words echoed oddly through the room, Chase gulping audibly. Cameron looked prim and serious enough, but her eyes were too wide, aware that she'd crossed some kind of line. 

The stranger rubbed his forehead, waiting for the room to start breathing again—he looked like he’d gone through this a lot. “Means I’m an expert. I _know_ what his blood tastes like, know what’s supposed to be there and what isn’t.”

Still comfortably reclining in his chair, House asked, “So, does that make him, like, your Renfield?”

Time blinked. There was no other way to describe it. Only a few feet separated them, but between one second and the next, the stranger had crossed the room and shoved House’s not inconsiderable bulk against the wall, inhumane face promising pain and punishment like only the Church could mete out. “He’s my fucking lover,” the stranger snarled, hand around House’s neck, “and if you’re not going to help him, you’d best tell me _now.”_

“Or you’ll kill me?” House choked out.

“Me? Nah. But some of his friends might. And all of _them_ have a pulse.”

Somehow, and no one was quite sure exactly how it worked, that smiling threat, slightly slurred from the teeth, was scarier than any immediate promise of pain the stranger could have made. House stopped struggling and nodded. “Understood. No more _Dracula_ jokes. Um," the word came out strangled and high-pitched. "Our deal still on?”

“You get him better and I’ll open the bloody Diaries up for you, all right? Just— _fix him_.”

It was the same plaintive cry they heard every day, from every spouse or parent or confused and frightened child. It didn’t matter that it was uttered from a mouth filled with fangs, or that his eyes were slitted and yellow—they still begged, just like every other human worried and scared for their loved one.

Predictably, it was Cameron who spoke first. “What’s your name?”

“Spike. My name is Spike.”

“Okay, Spike.” Cameron watched as House was gently put back in his chair, the marker pressed into his hand. “It’s still not a good idea to rule out diseases from Africa or Asia, yet. It could’ve been dormant in his blood stream for a while and you wouldn’t have, um. T-tasted it. I’m thinking TB—that’s till very common in Asia, in particular.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Please, you think I don’t know what TB looks like? Or tastes like? My sister died of it, an’ trust me, you don’t forget those symptoms. Look, it’s not anything normal. Not anything a bloke from nineteenth century England could recognize easily, either. It’s something _different_ , something I’ve never tasted before and I came to you because you lot think _out_ of the box and we bloody well need that now.”

“Need what now?”

The door opened carefully, allowing the referred sunlight to spill into the room cautiously with the kind of habit that’d become instinct. The man it revealed wore an eye patch, longish hair tousled, his khaki-color t-shirt doing little to hide the inflamed rash that traveled up his arms and probably over most of his body; the wrinkles in his clothes all came from scratching. He was smiling, totally at ease and comfortable despite his question, calming the tension in the room as Cameron, Chase, and Foreman all smiled politely back.

“Spike?” Xander prompted. “I got a call saying I was supposed to meet you here. Is everything okay?” He glanced at the rest of the room, clearly thinking: _why would a vampire_ , presuming he knew his lover was a vampire, although he must have since the vampire _bit_ him regularly, if Spike was telling the truth, _be in a doctor's office?_

Spike didn’t look inhuman anymore. His face was smooth and boyish again, blue eyes pleading as he carefully escorted Xander fully into the room and into a chair.

Then he locked the door.

Xander’s smile vanished. “Spike, you worry worse than Red does. I mean _Willow_ does, and it’s bad enough I use British swear words now, I have to use your nicknames too? And, um, hi.” He turned, eyebrows raising as House picked up his arm, _sniffing_ at the rash. “Can I help you?”

“In the interest of full-disclosure, your boyfriend has promised me a full workup of a real, not-living vampire once you’re better. Which means I have to _get_ you better.” Eyebrows beetled together, House poked at Xander’s arm. “I’d love to say wow, you’re cured! and just get on with figuring out how a dead corpse is walking, talking, and breathing nicotine laced air all over my nice, clean office, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Xander tugged his arm away. “Look, really, this is just a big misunderstanding. Spike’s sometimes forgets that he’s _male_ and turns into a _great big worry-wart_ like my grandmother. So, I’m really sorry to waste your time, uh, whoever you are, but—”

“Sit down.”

Everyone in the room—even Spike—sat down.

“Better. Now, I am Doctor Gregory House, I’ll be your attending physician because you are _not_ fine, you’re about thirty seconds from passing out, which you’ve already done several times. Haven’t you?”

Xander looked guilty only for a second, but that was nine-tenths of a second too _long_ given the way Spike started snarling out insults.

“Thought so. Cameron, get Mr. Harris into a room, please. Take a history, then test him for, oh, whatever you think is best right now. We’ll argue about which test would’ve been better later. In the meantime, Spike, you are going to give us a detailed account of which places you’ve visited how long ago, and I’m going to attempt to draw a blood sample from you while Foreman and Chase start doing _what I had asked them to_ , oh, hours ago, when I walked in the door. Differential diagnosis, people. Go.”


End file.
